The Talons in the Twilight
by Sundered Heart
Summary: In the grim darkness of the far future, the Imperium of Man fights for its survival against overwhelming odds. Among its mightiest champions are the space marines of the Crimson Wyverns Chapter, the wardens of the realm's untamed southern frontier. Join these trans-human warriors as they bring the Emperor's Light into the untouched corners of the galaxy!


**Disclaimer: Warhammer 40k and all its associated merchandises are properties of Games Workshop**

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**Prologue**

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Bones break. Spittle flies. Blood drips down to wet the ground. The icy gale howling through the trees cools the sweat, but it is nowhere enough to quench the heat altogether. The bonfires circling the clearing burns brightly, illuminating tangle of gnarled trees against the dark backdrop of a vast forest. Underneath the flickering flames, the tattoos adorning the leathery flesh of the natives seem to squirm and dance on their own accord. The illusory motion adds to the cacophony of whooping and chanting emanating from a thousand throats. A dozen different accents, half a dozen words for a seemingly same hue of shadow—but for tonight, all lips cry out with a same shared sentiment.

Underneath the tree line, the savage denizens of Aeolus Majoris have gathered for this momentous event. Hundreds have come from all directions—the fur-clad and bearded hill clans, lithe forest-tribes with their long cloaks and bronze daggers, even the tattooed and shaven islanders who braved the cold and rough waves to be here. They are no friends among them, only potential enemies and rivals to be dispatched. So it has been for millennia, for Aeolus' storm-stricken skies and dark, vast forests with its winged beasts have made the food scarce. Even now, dozens of spear-wielding sentries stand around the perimeter, anxiously squinting into the night sky for the telling sight of flapping red reptilian wings. They would have been the bravest men here. Everyone, from a child to an old crone, knows that one is as good as dead as soon as he sees the omen. The blood-talon can pounce on its prey faster than a man could react, carrying off its screaming quarry into the clouds in a blink of an eye.

But on this night, even they are not as the brave as the tributes.

Howling and shouting, the natives focus their attention to the center of the lit clearing, where more than a dozen youths are fighting tooth and nail. None has seen more than thirteen summers. Their bodies are already beginning to harden with muscles, their limbs lean and scarred by rough living on this feral world. Bereft of weapons, these boys nevertheless display the deadly skills every hunter must learn should he wish to survive into adulthood. Lightning jabs dislocate joints, open palmed blows paralyze windpipes, carefully placed kicks to the groin send youths rolling on the ground with agony. A moment of inattention costs many, momentary arrogance in the face of victories swiftly turning into ignominious defeats. The tributes give no quarters, utterly caught up in the savagery of the moment. Already, dozens of boys lie sprawled on the ground all about them, unconscious, moaning, bleeding. Some of them do not move at all.

None of them flees. None of them begs for mercy. Boys scream in pain, but never in fear. To fear is to admit weakness, and every single one of these youths are determined not to desecrate this sacred moment with a stench of cravenness. Such has been the way, as it will be in the centuries to come.

Time passes. Now, only a dozen youths remain unbowed, their bodies tough and minds cunning enough to survive the brutal melee. The ten of them stand apart from one another, fists clenched and eyes roving about for any sudden movements. They are of diverse backgrounds, the toughest scions that Aeolus has to offer. Covered head to toe with bruises and swellings, the youths look grimmer and deadlier than even the most seasoned tribesmen in the audience. They are tired, their adrenaline fueled blood keeping them alert and active. Many spit out broken teeth and bite their tongues to maintain their focus. No one dares show any sign of weakness. Not tonight, despite their urge to collapse and let the darkness take them just like dozens of their unfortunate fellow tributes.

Not especially before the dark-fathers.

The gathered tribesmen cheer for the remaining two youths still locked in combat. Even the dullest of them can see it is painfully one-sided. One of the boys, a prematurely large brute whose shaven and tattooed scalp marks him as an island-folk, relentlessly pummels his opponent with his bare fists. Bulging with muscles, the boy's arms pumps up and down with mechanical regularity. Half a dozen tributes have already met their end by his prodigious strength, one of them sent into the afterlife. Trapped beneath his massive bulk, the opponent struggles valiantly even as rock-like knuckles reduce his visage into almost unrecognizable mess. There is no escape. The islander is all muscle and mass, built up over the years of rowing oars and throwing harpoons into murky waters. His opponent is a forest dweller, whose lithe form might have served him in the dense woods, but does little in close combat. The young forest dweller retaliates with counterblows from his knees and elbows, but is slowing, the pain seemingly becoming too much to handle.

Inevitably, the young tribesman no longer stirs. After delivering two more blows to his prone enemy, the islander rises up and turns to face the crowd. The firelight reveals a long jagged scar running across his face, a product of a nearly fatal encounter with an iron-crab. With a feral grin, the youth pumps his fist into the sky and roars a wordless cry. All along the margins, his clan-kin gleefully roars approval, stamping their feet and banging their harpoons together.

"Haakon! Haakon! Haakon!" The islanders shout.

Haakon laughs as he boisterously paces around the clearing, brandishing his wounds to all as if they were trophies. Other surviving tributes eye him warily, preparing themselves should this unruly islander decide to take on one of them for sport.

Through the uproarious celebration, a quiet voice sudden pierces through like a honed harpoon.

"I'm not finished yet, you stinking animal."

The crowd abruptly falls silent, their cheers rendered numb with surprise and disbelief. Haakon turns. His triumphant smile fades as he sees the young tribesman slowly rising back to his feet. He sports a limp, while half of his face is beginning to swell. He is bruised and cut, with at least two broken ribs. For all his injuries, however, the young forest-folk stares at Haakon without any hint of fear. His eyes, the most brilliant shade of cerulean, seems to glimmer in the dark.

With a savage roar, Haakon launches himself at his opponent and floors him once again with a right hook. The blow would have been enough to give even a fully grown warrior something to think about. Yet, the youth rises back to his feet after a short pause, laboriously propping himself with his elbows before pushing himself up. Tottering, nearly at the end of his wits, and yet his eyes are defiant as ever.

Haakon growls in frustration, and lashes out two successive punches to the gut and to the head. This time, the force behind the attack is such that the youth's feet are swept out from under him. Haakon follows up with a brutal kick to the broken ribs, eliciting an agonized scream. Horrified gasps are heard from the crowd, watching and waiting with bated breath.

It take a little longer for the young forest-folk to stop convulsing in pain. But just as before, he slowly rises back to his feet, inch by inch. Battered, bruised, but indomitable. Despite his pain, the youth straightens himself before the incredulous islander. From the gathered audience, the forest tribesmen begin to sing. Uproarious merrymaking is not their way. Their hauntingly eerie songs, filled with soft vowels and melodies as sharp as wind, both serve to frighten their enemies in battle and invigorate their own warriors.

From the center, the young forest-folk dimly recognizes the tune as a line from the saga of their legendary chieftain, Agravaine. A traditional tribute to victorious warriors. Or to the bravest. Or those about to die in battle.

"Is that all you got?" His raspy voice is tired, but yet full of spite and mockery.

"You must have a death wish, tree-humper," Haakon snarls, his accent as rocky and sharp as the island he was raised on. His fist is drawing back once more already, eager to put down this upstart for good. "When you find yourself before the Sky-King, tell him it was Haakon, son of Jorundur, who sent you there!"

The youth closes his eyes. In truth, the darkness has never seemed so sweeter.

_ "Stop"_

The voice is deep, so impossibly deep that it almost sounds like a rolling thunder, or a roaring ocean. The single word, merely with its authority and majesty, instantly paralyzes every man, woman, and child in the clearing. The youth opens his eyes. Haakon has frozen, his fist hanging impotently in the air. His anger is quickly ebbing away, giving away to abject fear.

From the edge of the clearing, a piece of shadow detaches itself and becomes a man. More than a man. Taller than the tallest barbarian, impossibly broad, clad in a suit of armor fit for a mythical hero. A long sword not even four men could lift is sheathed at his waist. His visage is hidden behind a monstrous helm, its eye lenses glowing bright crimson. Any tribesman who stares into them would find himself suffering nightmares for months, his helpless soul haunted by a red-eyed deity.

Some wiser men who lived beyond the skies of Aeolus would recognize the giant for who he really was. A scion of the so-called Sky-King. The ultimate warrior. The last bastion of humanity against the darker forces arrayed against it.

To the barbarians of Aeolus, the giant was a demigod, a brother amongst many demigods, who protected them and kept order on this dangerous world.

He was a dark-father.

The giant strides into the clearing, impossibly fast for a being his size. No one, even the sentries, had known he was there. In a flurry of activity, the audience and the tributes fall to their knees, their heads bowed for the fear of meeting that terrible gaze. Without even a thought, Haakon and the youth both follow suit.

"_All of you," _the dark-father speaks again in his metallic voice _"Rise." _

The barbarians obediently and cautiously scrambles to their feet, many still taking care to stare at their feet. The youth, gritting his teeth to brave the pain, suddenly realizes the dark-father standing in front of him. Staring at him.

_"You." _

Slowly, the youth cranes his neck to meet the giant's gaze. Far above him, the twin crimson lenses bore into eyes—perhaps into his soul even, judging him worthy, weighing all his sins. Up close, the dark-father is even more frightening. His armor is the color of the blackest black, so dark that it seems to suck up all the light around him. The only exception are the large pauldrons, its rims colored crimson. Painted against the dark surface of his right pauldron is the ornate stylization of the world's apex predator, the blood-talon. For a brief moment, the youth forgets to breath.

_"You," _the giant continues, _"You have been beaten. You have lost, and you are in no condition to put up a fight. There is no hope of earning a victory here. And yet you continue to persist. Why?"_

The silence is profound. Not even a creature is stirring, nor a wisp of wind. Even the fire seems to have forgotten how to crackle. The youth stares into those terrible crimson eyes, and finds his answer there.

"I wasn't finished yet, milord," he whispers.

For what it feels like eternity, the dark-father holds his gaze before finally turning away to face the awaiting crowd.

_"All of you,"_ the giant booms, _"have once again proven your loyalty and dedication to the Imperium and to the Sky-Father. The Crimson Wyverns are pleased by the strength and the spirit that you have displayed here today! The bloodline of Aeolus' sons remain strong indeed."_

Relief suddenly rears his head amongst the crowd. Tribal elders, having witnessed many of such a ritual in their lifetime, crack a smile, knowing what is to come.

_"As of now, I call an end to this trial and accept these twelve tributes remaining standing. In time, if they be proven worthy, they shall join our ranks and aspire to the greatness of our primarch." _

It takes time for the words to sink in. Slowly, the low murmuring builds into a raucous cheer, until the entire sky is ringing with cries of jubilation. The barbarians mingle freely, laughing and shouting—glad of having one approval before the dark-fathers. The tributes, wary and alert until the very end, finally give themselves into celebration or fall into deep sleep amongst their joyous kin. Drums and flutes are brought out, as are roasted meats and ales reserved for such an occasion.

The youth sags, his strength drained utterly. He does not register excitement or even apprehension. Perhaps in coming days, when his injuries have healed and his thoughts are coherent once more, will he revisit those sentiments proper.

From amongst the throng, he catches sight of Haakon. The burly islander smirks, and gives him a loaded look before turning away to join his island clan. The youth nods, knowing full well what he means. There would be a reckoning between the two. A showdown to finish the fight started here. But not tonight, when both youths are in the thresholds of triumph. Perhaps someday in the future, if they finally secure their place amongst the dark-fathers in the stars beyond.

The youth already knows he will relish that second encounter.

Turning back, the youth realizes the giant is still looking at him.

_ "What is your name, aspirant?" _he asks.

The youth stands tall, his brilliant cerulean eyes meeting that crimson gaze. There is no fear to be had in those eyes now. The dark-father sees only determination, hope, and a trace of uncertainty that will eventually be uprooted in training. The youth smiles faintly, knowing that he is ready to embrace his destiny.

"My name is Asahel."


End file.
